


Chemicals

by PaxVobis



Series: Needles [4]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: ADHD Magnus, ADHD Pickles, Abusive Relationships, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Bad Decisions, Begging, Bisexual Male Character, Borderline Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder Magnus, Boundaries, Canon Trans Character, Choking, Creampie, Dark, Drama, Drug Abuse, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, Female Ejaculation, Finger Sucking, G-Spot, Gore Fantasies, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Is It Piss Or Is It Cum? The Boardgame, Knifeplay, Knives, Love Bites, Love Confessions, M/M, Manipulation, Mild Gore, Multiple Orgasms, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Painkillers, Past Drug Addiction, Preklok, Quiet Sex, Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, Riding, Secret Relationship, Self-Destruction, Squirting, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Unsafe Sex, Urination, ignorance, trans pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Magnus and Pickles' relationship develops in dangerous ways, a way for both of them to hurt themselves.  As Pickles decides that this will be the last time he descends, he messes up in a way he hadn't predicted.R18+ ONLY, explicit sexual content and drug use.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clownfvcker](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Clownfvcker).



> R18+ ONLY. Content warning: Contains piss(?), mild gore, dubious consent and emotional abuse.

Pickles had never intended it to keep happening.  Y’know, after Evelyn, everything was supposed to be a one-time thing.  Hell, _before_ Evelyn it was supposed to be a one-time thing, Tony was supposed to be a one-time thing, and heroin was meant to be a one-time thing and instead... Tony had filled up his head and heroin had filled up his body.  All the time with Pickles chanting to himself, _just this one time.  Just once._   And in 1997, he still hadn’t worked out that it was _never_ a one-time thing for him. 

Magnus had a similar problem.  He healed up quickly, but even then had run out of painkillers in the first two weeks and pursued them down different rabbit holes, a new and experimental period of his life.  Ha, as _if_ Magnus had never been addicted to painkillers before.  No, Pickles wasn’t stupid enough to believe that; he even believed the story Nathan told him about the guy snorting heroin and bleeding out through his face over the Masquerade stage, how everyone remembered that, how even Pickles knew that was the stupidest way to take in the abrasive drug.  He fancied that painkillers had been Magnus’ start, before he’d hit the ice – it almost always worked like that, raiding a medicine cabinet alongside your Ritalin to drown out your mom fighting with your step dad and the next thing you knew you were face down in a skate park after eating something you found in a fucking parking lot - - yeah, anyway.  The 80s were fucked up for everyone.  Whatever.

Magnus was obviously, therefore, relapsing.  All it had taken was a taste to get reacquainted and he was down the fucking drain again.  And it kept happening.  Pickles kept ending up high and alone with him, in his car or in his kitchen or on his knees in front of him in a venue toilet, and so often in his house, on his bed, zonked out on his painkillers and watching fucked up movies.  He’d found a place to live in Tampa by that point, the living room of this fucked up old punk and ex-junkie called Serlac who ran the sound at one of the metal venues, but kept - _just kept_ ending up at Magnus’ apartment.  Like it was quieter there, not a flop house, not a crack den, just... next-door to them.  Kept ending up with his face crushed against Magnus’ arm while they sat together on his bed, Magnus with his guitar in his lap, listening to his neighbours get domestic through the wall.

A one-time thing, taking Magnus’ painkillers.  A one-time thing, fucking Magnus at all, especially with the band and all.  Somehow the two went together, Pickles always ended up annihilated when there was a chance he’d end up alone with the other man.  It wasn’t like Magnus was drugging him or something, nah, they always came to each other as fucked up equals – Magnus offering, _hang out, get stoned_ , painkillers, booze, Pickles warily taking whatever he had and going ten times as hard as he should have.  And he _knew_ what happened when he got fucked up around Magnus, but by the time Magnus had dragged him into another kiss, his tongue drawn winding over Pickles’ or around his finger or his dick, it just felt too good, too far away for him to pull back from.

Wake up with his body aching, from being twisted or pinned down or bitten or slammed against something hard, things that felt good when you were high and left you a mess on the other side.  No memory of how embarrassing he might have been, no idea what he’d said – if he’d even been able to speak.  Mostly Magnus was at least as fucked up as he was, though in a more dramatic way; when Pickles was comatose, Magnus was throwing things across the room or with his arms around him, weeping into his lap as Pickles smoked the bong and patted him awkwardly on the back, refusing to say why.  Or brandishing a knife for the kicks it gave you, at your throat, you know.  Pickles had never been fucked at knifepoint before and then there he was, on a stained mattress with this creep and a blade on his throat, and his washed out bleach brain just sang to it.  But he woke up with tiny cuts and Magnus curled around his body in this protective way, like a jaguar rests with its kill in a tree, and for a one-time thing, it gave him a bad fucking vibe.

Habits were dangerous, establishing any sort of standard as to what was permissible.  Although fundamentally lazy and preferring the comfort of a loose routine through his day but a routine nonetheless, Pickles preferred to pretend that he was completely erratic, unpredictable, wouldn't be caught falling for the same trick again and again.  And that was why he was starting to grow uncomfortable with how he fell into Magnus' fuck, lured by TV and weed and body heat, and even though he could barely be bothered to change he was achingly aware of how dangerous it was to fall.

It was one thing, too, to just fall on his own terms, but Magnus liked to flex his control and see just how far it stretched, how far he could push Pickles.  This was how Magnus operated; in the months Pickles had now spent in the man's company he observed it again and again with different women.  Magnus would befriend them or romance them, whichever they responded to best, do what they liked - fuck them - tame shit.  Like there were a dozen different Magnuses that came out, little variations on the theme - Polite Magnus, Charming Magnus, Chill Magnus, Intellectual Magnus, Film Buff Magnus, Generous Magnus,  Magnus the Lover, or most frightening of them all, Fun Magnus.  Once they were comfortable with him,  _invested_  in it, whether it be just the chillest friends-with-benefits thing they'd ever had going or a true love kind of deal, that was when Magnus started to push it. 

Pickles didn't see the extent of it, just knew what it looked like in exhausted female faces, knew how it sounded in petty arguments between Magnus and the girls, knew how different walking with a hand around your wrist was to walking hand in hand.  Then inevitably they'd dump him, since Magnus liked strong-willed women, or if he had either gone against type and picked on a more docile girl, or - in the worst scenario - managed to grind them down into a kind of learned helplessness, the stubborn women sticking with him to try to change him.  He would always be cheating on them, call them boring, tell them that to their faces until either they dumped him or he grew bored and dumped them instead, usually abruptly, usually publically at some bar or party with everyone just standing around and this poor girl swallowing her tears. 

And then one of them - Skwisgaar or Pickles or Murderface or even Nathan - would move in on her, try to get under her guard when it was down, but Pickles had never seen the latter two get anywhere.  He'd had some success on the rebound himself, largely with stubborn women who were mad at Magnus (something hilarious to Pickles) on a one-night basis.  Skwisgaar, too, was good with the sweeter chicks and purely casual.  He supposed coming out of that crap with Magnus didn't prelude another relationship well.

Anyway, whichever it was, dumper or dumpee inconsequential, Magnus would chuck a fucking fit.  First the ranting and crying jags, something Pickles - who was always there, since Magnus immediately bounced back to him as if a gay fuck cancelled out the female chaos - was ill equipped to deal with and which felt inappropriately intimate to observe.  He'd binge, on drink, on speed, on hallucinogens,  an instinct Pickles understood better and knew unpleasantly he was part of, his status as taboo, as freak, as queer, something that Magnus was binging on too. Then he would suddenly vanish into the night to do things Pickles didn't care to think about, or he'd put on a raping, butchering film and press up against Pickles until they fucked, and they'd have a day or two of that, and then it was back chasing the vamps again.

Identifying that it was happening to him, too, had been harder for Pickles but eventually he'd seen it.  The first confusion was in its irregularity, as he saw Magnus every week for rehearsal at the very least and then often once or twice socially between, but their one-on-one moments - which always devolved into drugs and sex - were every few months.  Pickles didn't like to boast but his memory was pretty fucking atrocious, and he often wouldn't even remember the last time they'd boned until he was doing it again; he just had to assume if he woke up in the guy's apartment with Magnus curled up around him and a used condom on the mattress beside them that he had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

But Magnus' plan of attack was different with Pickles.  It was complex, two pronged, and as Pickles began to recognise them he was forced to question if they were in fact deliberate.  That had been his assumption for one hot minute, but if Magnus planned what he was doing, Pickles was too dumb to work out what the end game was. 

The two prongs were brutality and intimacy, and Pickles couldn't tell you which was more disturbing, although enough brutality  _was_  intimate in its own sick way.  The increasing brutality started, for instance, with the knife fuck, when they'd been hanging out and fucking around and Pickles had found the hunting knife in Magnus' pocket while he was groping for another weapon, admired it, played around with it, pointed it at Magnus and waved it in his face, and finally put it aside so they could fuck as Magnus kept kissing his neck.  Then out of the fucking blue, somewhere between putting on the condom and shoving his dick into Pickles, Magnus had the knife.  He pointed it at Pickles and snapped, "Get on your back.”  And God help him, Pickles did, with almost wordless obedience besides a pittance of snivelling. 

He could barely even look down his body for the way Magnus held the blade to his throat while he fucked him, his body held up from Pickles’ at a right angle, silent save for the sound of their bodies and catching breath, a distance, and his face looking dangerous in a way that shook Pickles, that Pickles had never seen so close before, not on the face of a friend.  Like a sheep killing dog.  Like he really wanted to ruin him. 

Pickles knew he was gross and aging, but he had seen Magnus with younger girls and the way he looked at them like that – _like sheep._   The idea of him doing that to them – the deception and then tearing out their throats – made him feel frightened and guilty, ashamed, for the orgasm he had after Magnus was done and ground his bony thumb into the base of Pickles’ dick, the knife still pressing against his windpipe.  Ashamed of the way he went back.  Somewhere, some _time_ , there was a teenage Pickles who desperately needed someone to tell him the way he’d been fucked wasn’t normal, that there was more to sex than being preyed upon.  And on his back on Magnus’ mattress, a cold sweat of disgust told Pickles he was fucked up for enjoying it now, for not stopping him.  But fuck.  It was none of his damn business.

On the second prong, intimacy, there was the guitar playing, beautiful Armenian folk pieces as Magnus had a classical education before his obsession with Satanism, a weird flash into his childhood and his private spaces that danced across Pickles’ perception, something he was not allowed to know of – that he didn’t want to know.  There was the weekly emotional breakdowns, crying – and kissing, and hatefucks, that emotional overstimulation of being pinned down and consumed, and everything that involved _feelings_ , something Pickles deeply resented. There was fucking women that Magnus had fucked, barely listening to them complain about him and yet when he tuned in, it was as though that slippery feeling in his gut had the shape of a girl, like she had crawled out of him and was sitting there on the couch with him, repeating it back to him:   _I dunno, man, he’s just so fucked up, you never notice and then he’s just there in your head, you know, god..._   Covering her face in shame.  And he did know, but reassuring her only ever got him laid instead.

Then there was the oxies, tricking Pickles into being vulnerable with him and then taking that vulnerability and tearing it out of him, with his mouth curled into soft places and forbidden things.  The first time Magnus had fucked him without a condom, Pickles hadn’t even known it was happening.  They’d both been high, or lowed as the case might have been, and it was late late late at night and Pickles had been feeling good, and Magnus had been feeling good, curled up around him (cat on kill, you know).  Stoned spooning had turned into sex without them even thinking about it, with Magnus barely lifting his body off of Pickles’ back as he crushed him into the pillow, and Pickles too stoned to notice he was bare until he stood up a few hours later, his head spinning with the pills, and it all oozed down his leg. 

But like, Magnus was usually so good.  Pickles had never had to ask.  He’d had the cut back in the 80s and he wasn’t generally afraid of catching anything but he generally didn’t fuck men.  And he knew the kind of dodgy chicks Magnus liked to rail, and suspected he fucked other men behind his back as well.  Now Tony had only fucked women, and Pickles had only _really_ fucked women, and the only dude Tony fucked was Pickles and the only dude Pickles fucked was Tony so getting AIDS was pretty much impossible (right?) but he’d lived through that, y’know.  Come to think of it – so had Magnus, right...?   So... he _knew_ that shit was dangerous...

Pickles had cleaned it off with toilet paper in the apartment’s tiny bathroom and felt a little revolted, a little turned on, at the jelly of it.  Fuck.  Maybe he’d just forgotten.  He’d decided not to say anything, but the next time a casual, comfy fuck came around, Magnus forgot again.

And again.  And again.  Until Pickles was very aware of it, of the fear of the swollen head rubbed against his cunt and his tongue nailed in his mouth, like somehow he couldn’t move to say it.  And when he sat on Magnus’ toilet and made faces at the slime, wondering why the fuck he let it happen again, he just knew it was too late.  The guy was in his head, you know.  God.  Pinching the bridge of his nose against the comedown, like it didn’t have to be like this.  Seeing all those girls in his mind’s eye and the shame simmering up in him again, knowing he was gonna have to do it again, walk out of Magnus’ estate building _knowing_ everyone knew and just said nothing, like they could smell the bastard on him.  Why hadn’t he said anything...?  Why hadn’t he even put up a fight?

It was fucking revolting. 

So Pickles would never forget the first time, that horrorshow fuck that had scrambled his brains enough for him to fall again and again and again, but equally important – he knew from heroin – was the last time.  It may not have been truly the last, as there was never truly a last, every promise your lips moved to form already broken in the relapses that would haunt you until you became cynical about it being the last, until you hated yourself.  Until you’d found something else to tie your noose to.  But by the time Pickles met Magnus, he’d gotten good at tying off. 

And this was the last time.  It had ended up that way again, no girls on the scene, just expectation and those damn standards, y’know, the bar that had been set.  Magnus had been dumped just the weekend before, and now, a stifling hot Wednesday night, was ready for the kill.  Pickles could practically smell it on him.  It was after a rehearsal, sitting in Magnus’ front room with the guy and Murderface too, this time, watching a Japanese horror VHS he’d gotten in from a friend overseas with the little TV in the corner of the room on a milk crate, so they could sit around in the armchairs and watch it.  Cosy as you like.  Weed and beer, every rehearsal had cartons of it, and they were sucking back another as they watched.

There had been _tension_ at the rehearsal, between Magnus and Nathan as was often the case although Pickles had come to learn the two were old friends.  It was based, somehow, on their age difference; or on Nathan’s stubborn refusal to take Magnus’ advice on anything.  Always said _okay_ , never actually did it.  They fought over Magnus’ lyrics, they fought over how the solos should go, they fought about the very underpinning _concept_ of the band, which was to Magnus shock and horror, and to Nathan, pure fascination with gore.  The two weren’t far removed from each other, or so thought Pickles, idly peddling on the kicks as he listened to Magnus snap at Nathan about the pronunciation of some ridiculous word Nathan could hardly even read, but apparently there was some difference and occasionally – only occasionally – they were at each other’s throats.

Pissed off, they had departed.  There were definite _sides_ to the band which made Pickles uncomfortable; Skwisgaar was on Nathan’s side, Murderface was on Magnus’, and Pickles was stretched between them, between getting drunk with Nathan on a Thursday night (and the guy was so friendly, once he’d calmed down, as was his housemate Stu, just kids really out on their own in the big city, something Pickles could relate to) and whatever unspeakable flavour of the week Magnus subjected him to.  This night, Pickles had gone to Magnus’ since Murderface was also going, and even if he took the drugs, which he would, the kid’s presence would hold Magnus back from any of that lovey dovey bullshit, kissing or My Bloody Valentine or eating him out.  Honestly, it was starting to concern Pickles how romantic Magnus could get when they were alone.  He did not like the feeling of being owned, y’know.  In a way.  And sure enough, stressed out from the fighting and craving to disconnect, when Magnus had brought out the oxies, Pickles had indulged.

He figured he’d had too many.  It was harder to tell than with heroin, which hit you all at once – with oxies, it was a slow descent, and he knew he wasn’t even in the trough yet, zoning out in front of the little TV.  Pickles didn’t understand anything that was happening in the movie, since the version Magnus had did not come with subtitles, but the gore was pretty sick and the soundtrack equally so.  As far as Pickles had worked out, this guy, a businessman, had turned half-robot and his dick had become a giant drill.  Despite the obvious risk, his girlfriend was still trying to fuck him. 

Pickles was heavily stoned and lowed by this point, staring blankly into the tiny screen, listening to Magnus bubble the bong to his right and Murderface’s quiet snoring.  He tried to pretend it was the pot that was turning him on and not the electric drill dick tearing into the woman’s torso, and narrowed his red eyes at the television, the black and white picture blurring against the painkillers and weed that stewed through his head.  Pickles didn’t know if Magnus was aroused by the gore – he’d never really tried to _hurt_ Pickles – but he certainly collected a lot of fucked up pornography for someone who wasn’t, y’know...

But focusing back into the picture, the woman’s screams – it was like he could feel the cold steel ground up into his cunt, corkscrewing up there, and painlessly scrambling his body around the spinning bit.  He squirmed where he sat, sunk deep into the seat of the armchair, uncomfortable in that swollen feeling; before Magnus, it had never been a thing that this kind of hyperviolent shit would get to him like this.  He’d watched fucked up stuff with the Snakes boys too, you know, just... not this kind of fucked up shit.  Piss shit or lunchmeats or whatever.  Not drills. 

The last time they’d fucked, Magnus had put on _Driller Killer_ , where this guy, an artist, punched electric drills through the backs of people’s heads and - - yeah, anyway.  It was effecting him.  The blood was effecting him, this fantasy of his body being pulled apart, of force.  Pickles felt that he was becoming a terrible thing, fascinated by gore, by the saliva strung between Nathan’s jaws as he bellowed _I LIKE VIOLENCE_ into a microphone.  But in truth, he knew it had always been there.  Dethklok had just... awoken it, so to speak.

He looked across at the other two cursorily, searching for an escape from this feeling, and found Murderface asleep, his chin tucked into his chest, and Magnus’ dark eyes staring at him in the dim white light.  Pickles quickly looked away.  Damn it, Murderface.  Why’d he have to be such an idiot, nodding off in the middle of a film, leaving Pickles technically, if not physically, alone with Magnus.  Pickles rubbed his wristband over his numb skin awkwardly,  his hand feeling far away with the oxies, and not looking back at the guitarist but not okay with looking straight at the film, either.  He heard Magnus say, “He asleep?” in a husky voice, and Pickles nodded without looking away from the TV.

“Huh.  I need to leave for work soon.”  Magnus stood in his periphery, straightening his back with a click.  “You staying here?”

Obviously, where the fuck else was he meant to go.  But Pickles just raised his shoulders in a shrug.  Magnus regarded him coolly, looked to Murderface, and then picked his way over the discarded beer cans and makeshift ashtrays to Pickles’ side.  His shadow cast long by the TV, and Pickles watched it apprehensively, unable to move.  Finally Magnus crouched on the floor beside him, bringing him to height with Pickles' lolling face.  He was so close that Pickles could feel his hot breath, reeking of beer and the faint tinge of a rotting tooth, and it raised the tiny invisible strawberry blonde hairs all over Pickles' body with a fiendish prickle.

"You're pretty fucked up there," he murmured, gazing at Pickles though his dark eyes were shadowed by the back light of the television, an errant gray or two already twisting out from his curls, "Do you want my bed?" 

Pickles bared his teeth in a bitter scoff.  If you could call it that, Magnus' collapsing, stained mattress laid on the hardwood floorboards and enshrined with hoarded trash.  But it was better than an armchair, and it was better than listening to Murderface fart and snore and writhe and talk in his sleep all night, and even though Pickles  _knew_  he had said never again and he  _knew_  that  _sleep in my bed_  was code for  _let me fuck you_  with Magnus so close to his face and the smell of him, you know, and just his presence, and being stoned like that, he thought maybe he didn't care if that happened.

He met Magnus' gaze and thought, maybe he even wanted that to happen.  He was gonna have to talk if that was how it was gonna go, though, and that was a struggle in itself.  "Yeee-ah," he managed to eek, a licentious smirk crawling across his face, "Oooh.  But I dunno if I can move, dude... I can't move too well..."

When Pickles got fucked up, he always repeated himself.  Magnus snorted at him, smiling, shaking his head.  Wordlessly, he moved his arms under Pickles, hooking beneath his knees and his shoulders to hoist him into his arms, ignoring the guy's infantile complaints of, "I can't move too well........ woooooow!  Oh, nooo!"  Truth be told, Magnus had never found Pickles' intoxicated squeaks anything but repulsive.  But if it meant he got to use a warm cunt to get his rocks off, he would put up with anything _._

Pickles clung to him as he was lifted, his head flopping back sickly as Magnus didn't give a fuck if he broke his neck so long as his body stayed warm for a while, and the room span around them as Magnus hauled Pickles into his arms and started the long journey to his room - just a few steps, but teetering forever on the brink.   Pickles watched Murderface's sleeping form, lit dimly in the television light, spin away from him.  It was a dangerous game they were playing, trying to fuck with him so close.  But the kid slept soundly through drills and screams and even chainsaws.  Surely a bit of squelching and groaning wouldn't budge him.

With every long step Magnus took to his room, Pickles' chest tightened and his groin beat with it.  Those fucking awful gore movies -- he clung tight to Magnus and wondered at himself, at the sheer phenomenon, and Magnus only barely missed concussing him on the doorway to his room as he pushed aside the black band flag that acted as his bedroom door in his cramped up apartment.  Still, even without a door there was a palpable change in the air moving into his bedroom, suddenly thicker with sweat, a stale body odor that emanated from the stained, uncovered king single mattress that filled half the room. 

Magnus wobbled over the piles of comics and empty beer cans and ashtrays and VHS cases and loose CDs - he had been painstakingly labelling them, bootleg snuff and torture porn sent from a messageboard acquaintance in Japan and dodgy CDs of live band recordings, with a permanent marker - to the bed, intoxicated himself, and unceremoniously dropped Pickles onto it, and his weight carried him down so far on the broken springs that his back nearly touched the floor on the descent before they popped him back to the surface again.  The room turned above him with the ghoulish faces of Magnus' grindhouse posters and death metal flags, NAPALM DEATH bearing down on him in white capitals that crawled over the black fabric they were hosted on.  And then Magnus was on him, like a hyena on a carcass, his hair falling over Pickles' chest and neck as he hunched between the drummer's legs and strong, deft fingers screwed open his fly.

"Oooooh," moaned Pickles, one eye closing halfway, and resigned himself to it.  He could feel every breath crush open his chest and nail him to the mattress as Magnus clawed his jeans down his thighs, his warm hands rubbing over his legs and then his mouth clamped hot over his short, semi-erect dick the moment after the cool air touched it.  After all that being wound up it felt good, fucking good, wet lips, a long tongue curled down towards his cunt, and Pickles groped uselessly at his sweaty t-shirt.  It happened so fast, fuck.  He always fell so fast.

Where he looked at the ceiling, Magnus' bedside lamp - propped on the floor - reflected off the silvery skins of the CDs and reflected in circles onto the ceiling, like a dozen peacock eyes, or ophanim, or argos – fuck, whatever.  When Magnus surfaced, licking his glistening mouth with his bare chest heaving, just long enough to pull Pickles' jeans off one of his legs and sling them - limp, bloated - over his elbows before he set in again.  "Jesuuhs," moaned Pickles, and looked down his body with his bony chin resting on his collarbone.  "You ain't even gon... gimme a fuuuhkin kiss....?"

And Magnus smiled up his body, his goatee tickling his labia.  "This is your kiss," he purred, and then fixed to his crotch again with a soft-tongued lick from his cunt to the tip of his dick.  This ruined Pickles, always ruined him; the way Magnus plunged face-first into things other people hesitated at, like nothing was below him, the way he sucked dick and ass and anything and delighted in it and made Pickles feel lucky to have one more go at it, one more set of scratches down his pale chest as the guy dragged his lips over his pointed dick and ashamed to wish that his tongue wouldn’t slither inside him, too ashamed to ask him to stop. 

As soon as Magnus focused on him, hardened his tongue and rubbed it against the underside of his engorged dick pulled up by his lips to full height like a spire, Pickles' thighs locked rigid against Magnus' neck with the tightness of it.  "Oooh," he groaned, one hand screwed into his dank dreadlocks and the other clasping for Magnus' hair as it spilled over his thighs, "God."  His vision blurred above him, and the eyes of the CDs doubled.  The ridge of his teeth, smoothed by his lip, pressed the base of his dick hard against his pelvic bone.   Behind pickles' closed eyes he saw the outline of Magnus' skull, his picked bare skeleton, and it was like being eaten out by death's head, fucked him up real bad. 

This was all a ploy, of course, so that he'd allow Magnus to fuck him with more brute force and Pickles knew that, and in his own mind, he knew he took advantage of it.  Magnus was under the impression that he needed to treat Pickles well to get that far, but Pickles knew that he would have let it happen anyway.  His cunt ached for it after all those drills - even if he came it wouldn't be enough, everything Magnus could throw at him would barely be enough.  And the guy always pulled back, another manipulation trick, a promise - kept him coming back for the touch more savage it would be the next time, feathering the ignition.

But  _fucking hell_  he needed dick.  Pickles' hand wrung into Magnus' curls as he gasped and gurned, hissed, " _Suck it - suck it!"_ down his body at the man.  The first two short-nailed fingers on Magnus' left hand were sunk into his cunt, and Pickles automatically rolled his hips forward to meet them, squeaking, " _Ffff-uck!_ " with it.  He could feel the edge tracing around his brain, disappointingly shallow.  But Pickles had never had much self-control, and less on opiates --

Suddenly there was coolness, emptiness, and Magnus was sitting up between his legs, looking down at him and chuckling as he licked the sticky mucus from his long fingers, silver on his beard like snail slime.  The edge dropped.   _"_ Oh, you  _fucker!"_  snarled Pickles in a shrill squeal, tensing his chest and throat as the anger burst in his head rather than the orgasm, a distant red light flashing in fury and smothered by the drugs.  "Come on!  Come ohhhhnn!  Just  _fuck me!_   You're gonna fuckin, run outta time if ya don't..."

"Fuck you?" asked Magnus with a put on innocence, but he groped at the obscenely bulging crotch of his jeans with one long, spidery hand.  Pickles watched it hungrily, could not focus his eyes, and it appeared - with Magnus doubling - that his legs were sprawled so, so wide, wide enough for two Magnus'.  God, if he had two cunts to have fucked!  What a thrill... he'd almost call Murderface in here for that one.

But god, he didn't need the drama.

"Fuck me," groaned Pickles again, dropping his head back, "Youuuuuu'll... run outta time.  You'll... run outta time.  C'mon, Mag."

"Run out of time?"  Magnus glanced around the room, scanning the trash with his eyes, and then reached out to snag a small digital flip clock otherwise buried in the junk around them.  Once he had checked it, he held it up so Pickles could see, although the numbers were too foggy for him to make sense of.  "I mean.  That's still, what, thirty til I gotta leave, y'know, absolutely  _gotta_.  We can squeeze in whatever and a shower by then, right?"

Pickles moaned at him, and clutched uselessly at the hem of Magnus' shirt.

"Right?  Wait, what was it you wanted me to do again?" 

God, Pickles hated him.  Hated his smug fucking Cheshire grin, the way he played, the way his rough denim jeans scratched the soft insides of Pickles' thighs as he unlocked his belt.  But he swallowed it all, and gulped up:  "Fuck me."

"What?"  Magnus leaned over Pickles, hands on his open belt and grinning demonically as the drummer weakly tugged on his shirt.  "Didn't catch that, buddy, say again...?"

" _Fuck me,_ " hissed Pickles, his teeth bared and his eyes bugging, his body paralysed in its throe wringing his locks and his hand wound in the other man's shirt, " _Asshole._ "

"Asshole?"  Magnus sat back up again, his hands hooking under Pickles' knees to an angry sigh from the guy.  "Fuck your asshole.  You want me to fuck your asshole?"

"Sure," growled Pickles, gritting his teeth.  "Why not.  Jus'... do it.  Give it to me, fuck me, Ma-a-ag, c'mon..."  Now he was starting to sound pathetic as his cunt throbbed for it.  Oy, Magnus was the worst....

"But what if I don't wanna?" cooed Magnus, pouting at him theatrically, "What if I just wanna fuck your sloppy pussy, Pickles?  Oh, I can't decide, man!  I don't wanna  _run_  out of  _time_... leave you for  _Willy_ to find,all  _wet_ and  _pathetic_ \-- "

"No... ohhh, noo..." moaned Pickles, and Magnus slid his fingers over the spread, wet folds of his cunt slowly and messily, excruciating against the fucking  _need_.  "Don' make me beg, dude.  This is, is fuckin'... and you gonna... you're gonna run outta... fuck."  He blinked, one eye at a time.  "You're such a fuu-cking  _doooooouche..._ "

But Magnus was still looking around the room, leaning over to replace the clock in the junk even as he sluggishly fingered the paralysed Pickles.  "I don’t need to make you do anything, you're doin' a good enough job on your own, bud.  But maybe I got a compromise."

Pickles, zoned out at the ceiling again, saw the CD reflections flash as Magnus' arm passed over them, and he knew whatever Magnus was doing he had planned the whole time.  It was gonna be humiliating.  It was gonna involve his ass.  He didn't need the clip sound of Magnus opening the tube of lube kept handy by his bed with a nail a second later to tell him that.

Pickles gulped and tried to haul his mind up from the fluff it had sunk into while he lay there.  "What's that?" he mewled, seeing Magnus had surfaced with something.  "What's that?   _Whuuuuuut's theeeaaat?_ " and Magnus met his gaze, kneeling over him and holding it up.

"Sharpie."  It was, in fact, a metal Edding marker and not a Sharpie at all, the one Magnus had been using to label the CDs and tapes (and write obscenities in every bar toilet he crossed, like Murderface’s mobile number and _homo dickpig call me for a good time_ ).  Pickles tried to focus his eyes on the red capitals and failed altogether.

"Oh... you gonna write on me, dude?" he tried, and Magnus gave him an unimpressed look.

"No, I'm gonna stick it up your ass, moron."

And before Pickles had a chance to form another word, Magnus had hooked his knee up and crossed his leg sideways over the other, effectively turning his hips onto their side and exposing his lily-white ass.  A blunt-clawed hand clutched his ass cheek and groped it aggressively, and then the next thing he knew, Pickles was choking on his own tongue as Magnus pushed the lubed up butt end of the pen into his anus.

Another fucking limit broken.  Pickles shivered uncontrollably as the pen breached his ass, the cold metal pushing in slowly, excruciating, and the edge surging up to meet him with an ugly and overwhelming pulse that almost made him bite through his tongue, his face mashed into the pillow.  Magnus observed the twitching and bucking, holding the pen in place halfway, and only when Pickles dropped limp again did he begin to push it further again.  It stuck in like a fucking drill bit, cold and hard in his body.  Pickles panted, and felt obscene.

"Did you just cum?" gloated Magnus, sliding the metal out almost to the end again and rubbing his thigh.  “From just that?  Oh, jesus.  That is _sad._ ”

“Fuck yew,” breathed Pickles, and scraped his nails across the bare top of the mattress.  As he shuddered off the orgasm, he could feel the fingers of Magnus’ free hand explore the slick folds of his cunt, crawling over the wet skin and hair as he eased the pen back into him.  The metal was rapidly warming with his body heat, and Magnus sawed it into his body experimentally,  smiling genially down at him. 

With his body trembling, he saw Magnus duck, his curls falling over his face like a huge dark pompom, and then felt his tongue on his cunt again, lapping – distinctly not for Pickles’ pleasure, but rather to taste him, delighting in what he could physically _change_ about Pickles without his say in the matter.  Pickles groaned and closed his legs on Magnus’ face, squeezing them hard with the guy’s heavy skull crushed between his thighs, and Magnus chuckled into his cunt and clawed at his legs greedily.  If he twisted his hips like _this_... maybe he could break Magnus’ neck.  No!  Maybe he could just... turn over... like this...

Magnus rolled straight off him instead, collapsing onto his back with a laugh, and Pickles smacked him with his open palm – weak and uncoordinated, flailing in his face.  “Shut up!  Shuddup!  Murderface!” he hissed, trying to control his own giggles as he attempted to sit up, but his head span and he tripped on the jeans leg still around his ankle, and a second later the pen jabbed into his anus, lodged there from before, as his angle changed and he grunted in surprise.  “Jeeeesus,” he whinged, and pulled it out of himself, abandoning it on the mattress and then wrestling the jeans off his foot.  Magnus just lay there, smiling at him, licking his lips for the fluids still on them, his cock rock hard in his jeans.

Pickles knew what he wanted now.  Regrets be damned, he was gonna get fucked tonight.  He decided all in one then, stripping his own shirt over his head and then reaching for Magnus’ fly and yanking it open, that this was going to be the last time he did this.  The last time ever.  So he’d better make the most of it.  He pulled pathetically on Magnus’ tight jeans and briefs, trying to pull them down his legs, the man’s cock bouncing up from his fly as he yanked them down.  Magnus laughed at him, at his numb fingers, and sat up enough to pull them off himself, strip his shirt from his shoulders, and lean over Pickles to kiss him teasingly on the lips.

“Show me how much you want it,” he murmured as he lay back on the mattress, sprawling, and a snake of revulsion squirmed inside Pickles, quickly defeated as he took in Magnus’ nude and waiting body.  It was a fucking battle to get his leg over the man, his head spinning violently, but somehow he did it with Magnus catching him as he swooned on top of him, barely holding Pickles' arms to keep him upright, his ass balanced on Magnus' hairy lap and his fattened cock standing straight against his crotch, prodding the paunch of his belly.

Pickles’ hand floated to the stiff dick and numbly stroked it against his soft belly.  It felt bigger in his high, his deadened hand, and he squeezed it tight in his palm for what little warmth he could take from it, wary of Magnus' mocking, baiting grin. This was fucking dumb.  He did want it, his cunt ached for it, for the dumb penetration after all these violations, to just fucking forget himself in Magnus' ugliness and return to normal with the curse broken, without the humiliation of still wanting.  But the idea of lifting his body that far was intimidating, like he carried a lead weight in his pelvis, sunk into the space where his organs had been cut out of him and pressing down on that needy fucking hollow.  His face felt like it would slew off.

"Come on," urged Magnus sympathetically, pushing on his shaking arm as he leaned his weight forward into Magnus' hand, and his other hand - deadly with those picking nails - clutched Pickles' thigh as he battled up onto his knees, lifting his pelvis.  When he was kneeling, trembling, leaning on Magnus' hand, the other hand released his thigh and glided finger by languid finger over his sticky cunt lips as Magnus gazed up at him, took in his ugly face, wincing and glazed in sweat.

"Pickles?" he asked with a weird vulnerability, and Pickles hated it, that tender fucking thing like the guy would just pull open his wounds for him but  _wait_  until he had his dick in hand to do it.  Pickles ignored him and guided the meat of his cock to his cunt, glaring down at it in concentration as he stroked the head between his cunt lips.  It felt warm, soft, plush, a rose pink against his own light rust fur and the dark blush of his cunt.  A pretty thing, a good thing... a wanted thing...

"Pickles..." said Magnus again, his hand stroking up the side of Pickles' face, and Pickles just looked up at him, his cheek held like that.  Leaning into it even.

"Magnus.  Shut up," he groaned.  He looked down at the cockhead again, pressing against the slot of his cunt with his weight on it, his hand around the shaft, Magnus' thumb stroking his mouth and trying to hook into it barely felt for numbness.  Gazing hotly down at the cock, Pickles' heart jumped up into his throat as he realised that once again he did not have a condom on.  He hesitated at the warmth of it.  Thought he could demand... ah.  Fuck it. Anything Magnus had, he undoubtedly had already pumped into Pickles in a previous sloppy, lazy, resentful fuck.  One more wasn’t going to kill him.

It took some repositioning, but once he'd lodged the flared tip inside him, the soft pink skin slick with his slime, it was just a matter of weight and taking it, ignoring Magnus' sharp nails biting into his buttock as he let it part his insides, reacquaint his body with what he'd had again and again after months of nothing.  Magnus' dick was broad and flattish, like two pipes taped together, and the shiny scar from his operation like a dark sear on it below the older band of his circumcision.  The challenge was that first flare at the one third mark, which would pare you open as it pushed deeper, and if you went slowly your body would try to close up around the narrower half or hilt and you'd get it lodged in there, and whenever he went for the longer stroke it'd stick in you like in a fingertrap, tugging at your guts until they gave way again.  Good but... exhausting, you know.  If he went hard - and he always went hard, unless he was too fucking lazy to bother - then you'd be left with an aching cunt and feeling raw and tender for a day or two.  Sometimes Pickles thought it was a good thing, y'know, that it was only every few weeks that they ended up like this, binges of constant fucking for a day or two and then time to recover, but then he never got used to it either.

Magnus pawed at his pudgy chest as he sank down into his lap again, the guy's hard dick sticking up inside him like a bone with the way it jabbed into the back of his cunt, pushed him to a new shape, and the feeling flooded Pickles' head with a blood-heavy swoon.  He breathed shallowly, palms down on the bare, stained mattress by Magnus' shoulders, as Magnus' hands ran over his skin, tracing out the flats and curves of him.  He gave a wiggle of his hips beneath Pickles, trying to get comfortable, and that only buried the thing deeper like it had dropped into a groove.  Pickles gave a sore groan at it.  Felt  _fucked._

Magnus' long, bony fingers crawled over his cunt again, rubbing the lips against his hilt where they were spread around it and then the base of Pickles' short dick where it stuck out at nearly a right angle with his arousal.  Magnus had learned fast, faster than Pickles himself, that kneading the root and the top of it brought the blood up in Pickles, the heady need, but without rubbing the head of it, or sucking it, or crushing it between his pinching fingers, the guy would not push over the edge. 

Simple anatomy, he'd later boast, stoned on the couch to Pickles, the little freak wasn't so different after all... still he was yet to find any scars.  They did good work in LA... must have shelled out tens of thousands for it all... span his head a little... sinking his dick into work that cost more than his car.  And it was a  _nice car_ , man, like, he was being for real here.  It was weird, jizzing on expensive shit.  Expensive people.   _Not bad..._ and it’d make Pickles pale and nauseous to listen to, tapping the ash off their shared joint and fingering the neck of his rum bottle.  Silenced.

So by rubbing his knuckles into it Magnus was teasing him.  He gazed long into Pickles' eyes, stoned, smiling knowingly at Pickles' swooning and dizzy spells as he ground his knuckles into the butt of his short dick, and spoke in a murmur: "You love that, don't you?  You horny fuck..."  He rolled his hips languidly beneath Pickles, flexing and worming his penis inside him with the motion.  It made Pickles feel hot and ill, like influenza.

"Shut up," slurred Pickles in barely a whisper, his eyes unfocused, "Magnus.  Shut up.  Shut uuuuup.  I hate that mudderfuckin word... I hate that.  I haaaate that."  But even as he raised his hips, drawn up Magnus' cock, the man's hand reached up for his face.

“Shh shh shh.”  Magnus’ fingers crawled over his mouth, his face hooked into a smirk, “I know.  I know.  I won’t say it again.  But we both know where we’re at.”

And where _were_ they at?  Pickles had no idea.  He was so fucking lost, so confused, mired in all the _meanings_ Magnus put on his words, the way he leaned into them and leaned into the obscurity of them.  The oxies span his head, staggering him over Magnus’ body, and the man chuckled up at him and hooked his hand beneath Pickles’ jaw, all threat and no choke.  “You treasure,” he murmured, rolling his hips beneath Pickles and bringing him back down the length, and Magnus ran his hand down his neck, the skin flushed and hot beneath his palm.

It felt like Magnus' dick was sticking directly into Pickles’ liver or kidney or something, some kind of organ, and Pickles squirmed with discomfort, twisting his hips as he tried to reposition it inside him.  His spleen maybe.  Where even was his spleen?  He thought he’d got it in the right place, but as soon as Pickles lowered his body again, it stuck back into the tenderest part - even worse, as if it was pressing his bladder, dropped into some deep groove in the plush and unfathomable folds of his cunt.

Pickles sat there, staring blindly just past Magnus' face, and made a sound something like  _euuuuughhhhhhhhyyyyerrrrrhhhhhhgh_ as Magnus groped at his ass and back, squirming beneath him in almost a thrust, feeling like a screw slowly tightened up into his guts through the back of his cunt.

"Fuck," breathed Magnus, keeping his voice low as he rolled his hips up into Pickles again, staring into his unfocused eyes, "That's good... I never fucked a cunt like yours, man, fuck... you have no idea... it's so fuckin'  _fat_.  You're a skinny fuck... but your pussy is so _fat_.  It’s _bliss._ "

But Pickles was so far gone he could barely follow what was being said to him.  He slumped on top of Magnus, leaning forward on his elbows, and surrendered himself to the excruciatingly weird screwing feeling as Magnus ground his dick slowly up into him.  When his thumb ground up under Pickles' cock, the bony joint grinding the swollen flesh into his pubic bone, Pickles felt like he was going to go blind.

Magnus smirked at him, his other hand rubbing Pickles' cheek, his smile growing as Pickles leaned into his palm, his eyelids drooping with the sedative.  "Look at you," groaned Magnus, and his fingers pushed into Pickles' mouth, and Pickles instantly sucked, his tongue rolling across them - tasted like his cunt, tart with body funk.  He wished Magnus would shut the fuck up, but no words would come to his tongue, full of Magnus’ fingers. 

Magnus gazed at him hazily, again like he was that frightening thing - in love.  "How could I quit you?" he muttered, more to himself than to Pickles, and though he heard and the uneasiness swamped him, at the possessive, in-love way Magnus spoke all whispers, the way he tenderly fucked Pickles' mouth with his fingers, Pickles was absolutely paralysed to do anything but take it as the drug dragged him down.  His blank brain worked his body on autopilot, just matching Magnus' lazy finger thrusts with humps of his hips, puppetted by Magnus’ hand. 

Here it came.  He was gonna do it.  The two fingers lying heavy and thick against his tongue.  "Don’t say... don’t...” slurred Pickles around the fingers in his numb mouth, and Magnus stopped for a second, hand resting on his cheek tenderly.

"Stop?" he filled in, barely a mumble, reluctant, and the sound of his whisper hoarse beneath him prickled over Pickles' entire body.  Slowly he shook his head, Magnus’ hand caressing his cheek as he moved.  Pickles swooned dizzy, like he was in a swamp of feeling, like he was dead.  But it was survivable, more survivable than Magnus' sulking and later temper if he stopped it now. And --

“Gawd, I feel li-i-ike shi-i-i-it," he mewled, and Magnus snorted at him, but Pickles had opened his mouth to cut him off before he could protest, “Naw, naw.  I wan’ it.  Fffffuck me.  Get it over wi’... Mag...”

“Get it over with?” Magnus held him tight by the hips, frowning benevolently up at him.  Pickles cursed inside his sluggish mind.  He didn’t want to have a fucking debate right now.  He just wanted to be fucked until Magnus was done with him, and then left alone to wallow in the filth.  Couldn’t Magnus just understand that, instinctively?

“Yeah... yeah whatever.  Just fuck me.  Gawwwd.  Please don’ make me... beg... again...”  Again the heat, again the smothering.  Magnus’ frown slid back, he smirked and said nothing more, stroking his hand down Pickles’ cheek and rubbing his lips hard with them, and then wrapped his arms around him, one at the waist, the other at the shoulder, anchoring him and slowly pulling him down, bent double, chest to chest. 

As the angle increased, so Magnus' cock pushed harder on his insides; the world lurched around him as Magnus squirmed beneath, changing his angle, getting his footing.  He kissed all over Pickles' neck, holding him close, taking no heed of his low moan and licking hard up his throat before he latched on with a painful suck - but in the heat of his arousal, it never felt anything but overwhelming.  If there was one thing that Pickles welcomed more than anything else, the truth of a situation, any real understanding, it was being overwhelmed.  So long as you were overwhelmed, you didn't have to fucking think about how terrible everything really was.

With Pickles snared like that, his bent legs weak and limp straddling Magnus, the guy rolled his hips up beneath Pickles, thrusting sluggishly into his body.  At the nearly horizontal angle of his cunt, the dick immediately pulled out almost to its entire length, a weird, slippery, empty feeling immediately reversed as Magnus slowly thrust back up again.  Slackjawed and fat tongued, it was like the air was being pushed out of Pickles’ throat by the intrusion and he gave a croaky moan.  Magnus chuckled at him, and Pickles could feel it through his entire body.

“Better keep it down, Pickles... you don’t want Willy to see you like this,” he purred, his lips brushing against Pickles’ ear as his cock  drew out of him, that bulge dragged on by Pickles’ cunt, until the head was just inside him.  Pickles groaned again, quieter this time, and the next Magnus tried this – almost out, not completely – the thing slipped out anyway and rubbed greasy up against Pickles’ asscheek until Magnus released his hip and fished it back up, guiding it back into his open cunt.

Magnus huffed against his neck, his breath hot, as he lodged himself deep again, lining up his hips with Pickles’.  His cock squeezed right up against that spot again, a painful stab of feeling like he desperately needed to piss but snatched away from him as quickly as it had come.  Pickles hissed through his teeth at it, battling to stay quiet as every little movement Magnus made into him made it pang over again.

Pickles could feel the claustrophobic heat of the man’s beery, cannabis-tinged breath as he panted against his cheek and started into fucking him in earnest, his splayed hand groping at Pickles’ ass as he jacked up into him, and his head swam with the swollen pulse.  He had felt shadows of this before, with Magnus, yes, with Tony too; he assumed just too much champagne or a weird spot or... but something about this time was different, the angle or the drug cocktail or _something_ , and every jack that Magnus made rubbed back up against it.

Pickles tried to stay quiet.  He really, honestly did.  He bit his tongue and held his breath, buried his face in Magnus’ greasy curls, but the longer he held on to it the harder and faster Magnus got beneath him, getting lost in the fuck himself with sighs and hisses, his hand pawing at Pickles’ ass like dough.  Pickles’ dick was ground between their pelvises, and his teeth jagged into his tongue as he choked down the squeaks of overstimulation as Magnus thrust up into him.  When the fingers of Magnus’ groping hand grazed across his asshole, the sensation was too much and Pickles moaned with it, pushing his hips back against the thrusts.

Magnus chuckled at him, turning his face to kiss Pickles’ ear, and slid his finger daintily into Pickles’ lubed ass as he fucked him, getting the predicted, “Oh, fuuuuck, Magnus!” squeaked out from the other man.  Immediately Magnus’ other hand slapped across Pickles’ mouth, silencing him.  Pickles’ hands groped for Magnus’ shoulders, holding onto him tight as he was fucked, his vision blurring as the feeling swelled inside him. 

He was aware, at the edge of his mind, that as Magnus’ hand covered his mouth and his finger withdrew to grope his ass again,the angle of his hips changing beneath him, that the force he was fucking with should have hurt.  He could feel it like a punch, the flare of Magnus’ cock grinding into that swollen feeling with every hard thrust, could hear the dull smack of their bodies and his muffled squeaks jumping as his body was jogged on top of Magnus.  But he felt nothing, _nix,_ except the blistering heat of Magnus’ skin, the smothering, dank air of his tiny room hot around them, and that crazy, bulging, throbbing feeling like he desperately needed to piss. 

But he could feel another orgasm almost peaking as well, his dick crushed slick between their bodies wet with Magnus’ sweat and the slime from his cunt.  He could stick it out, he had to.  His body was slammed by Magnus, his arm looping around Pickles’ waist again as he anchored him still and feasted on his throat, hissing, “ _Yes,_ ” against his skin as his lips and tongue wove across Pickles’ hot and salty skin.  Pickles screwed his eyes shut, his fingers slipping over Magnus’ sweaty collarbones as he held on against the rough fuck that made him feel split, peeled apart; he squealed against the hand over his mouth, Magnus’ fingers pulling into his cheeks as his grip tightened with his own peak. 

Felt like he was going to pull his fucking face off, the long, wicked nails of his picking hand biting into Pickles’ skin.  His other hand, the fingering hand with dulled nails, pulled them over Pickles’ waist like a cat swiping in terror, a stinging but no pain burning along their paths.  With every thick, heavy thrust, Pickles saw the blood pop in his vision, a burst of static fuzz as he knew he was about to come.  It struck him freak, bizarre, that Magnus appeared to be there too, the man’s face turned to his and barely an inch from his own fading into vision as the static receded, but then suddenly Magnus’ hand was gone from his mouth – his gaping lips numb and open to the stifling air – and seized him in a death grip under his jaw, choking the yelp of protest inside his throat, and Magnus stabbed hard up into him, his other hand clutching Pickles’ ass as he shuddered uncontrollably beneath him.

Pickles nearly processed the thought, _is that it?_ before Magnus cut it off in him, twisting his throat in his fingers and stabbing up into the back of his cunt again as he came, his free hand clenching into a fist in the air above Pickles’ hip as his cock throbbed inside him.  Another rush of static as he choked.  Pickles felt ill, like his loins were on fire, filled with white heat.  The hand slapped down on his ass again, groping it roughly.  “Fuck,” Magnus gasped, “I love you.  Fuck!” and thrust sloppily into Pickles as his fingers slipped from his sweaty throat, and Pickles panicked, pushing up onto his hands as Magnus bounced his hips.  He saw the semen on Magnus’ cock stuck into him, where it had been squeezed out of his own filled cunt, and he was going to squeak _don’t say that_ when suddenly it happened.

He wasn’t sure if he came.  It was one of those ones, where his body was pinching and trembling, his toes curled inside his socks, but the spike didn’t hit his brain.  If it had been a heroin shot, he’d have been in opioid rage for the entire nod, blowing his top at the band and smashing shit in hotel rooms.  Instead, all that work for nothing, his body fucked out and drenched in sour sweat, and as his insides pulsed there was a release.  He wasn’t even sure if he felt it, only suddenly there was a stream of hot liquid and wetness, a heady, pungent body smell that he didn’t recognise, and then Magnus sat up abruptly, grabbing him by the hips as they sat face to face, Magnus wild-eyed, Pickles fucked out, their shared lap drenched.

“ _Did you piss or did you cum?_ ” demanded Magnus, clutching him by the throat again and giving him a vicious shake, and Pickles whimpered at him.  “Pickles!  I _need_ to know.  Did you piss on me just then, or did you cum?”

Pickles whined again, feeling the liquid cooling his thighs where it had pooled in their laps.  “I dunno... Mag... you’re hurtin’ me,” he choked, and Magnus released him with an aggressive push.

“You don’t know?  Whadda ya mean, _you_ _don’t know_?  How can you not know if you’ve cum or not?  Jesus!”  He started to crawl out from under Pickles, dislodging the smaller man from his sopping lap and leaving him to tumble onto his side, Magnus’ softening dick, messy with their joint fluids, pulled from his body.  With a grunt of disgust as his ass touched a soaked part of the mattress, Magnus scooted himself backwards, feeling blindly for his alarm clock.

“What’s the time?  Fuck!  I’ll be late for fucking work – gotta shower now... _is this piss or is this cum?_   Pickles, dude, you gotta know!” he snapped desperately, and Pickles just lay, half on his front, breathing in the stale, stained mattress under his face with the wet fabric bleeding against his thighs.  He pulled a pathetic shrug, barely able to move as his cunt rang numb with the pounding he’d received.

“I told ya...”

“How can you not fucking know?  They ain’t real similar!”  Magnus was on his feet now, groping for a discarded and still-damp towel abandoned on the floor from a shower a day ago.

“I’m sorry...” whimpered Pickles, his throat stinging from the choking, shutting his eyes against it, “I’m really, really high...”

“You’re a fucking _maggot_ , that’s what you are!  I can’t believe you pissed on me!”  Magnus rubbed the damp towel over his thighs, fluffing up the thick hair that was pasted to his legs and belly, and then slung it around his hips with an air of defeat.  “Fuckin’... can’t even control your fucking body!  _I don’t know_... bull fucking shit you don’t know!  You’re fucking pathetic!”

He paused, standing over Pickles, and there was a peel of thunder somewhere in the distance, pounding through the hot Tampa air outside.  Magnus released a breath.  “I’m gonna take a shower,” he said, lower this time, his anger dropped, “And go to work.  Try and beat this storm.  I’m gonna be late, thanks to you.”

Pickles didn’t say anything.  When he got no reaction, Magnus just gathered up his uniform and walked out of the room, and Pickles heard the bathroom door slam a second later.  His body felt like lead, like it was sewn to the wet mattress, his hips still in the air and his shoulders slumped to it.  The pipes in the walls rattled, and he could hear the shower through the adjoining wall of the bedroom and the bathroom, muffled.  In the bedroom, the stale air settled down over him like a blanket, hot and thick, as he slowly caught his breath.  But the drug had drowned him deep.  He wasn’t going anywhere soon.

What if he overdosed here, ass in the air, leaking cum and dead in a pool of his own piss.  Or his own ejaculate if that was what it was.  He didn’t know.  Apart from the bandmate’s cum part, that was basically how Pickles had envisioned his death for quite some time and he found he wasn’t too bothered, just... embarrassed, a wrenching pain in his heart from being thrown off of Magnus’ lap, the aborted orgasm, the terrible fucking decision it had been from the start.  He knew he’d just wanted to suffer, but not this much.  Why the fuck did it always feel like this?  If he was less high, maybe he’d even be able to cry.

The shower stopped.  The front door slammed.  The truck revved and left beyond.  The thunder rolled over the sky like the skin of a drum.  Pickles could feel himself slipping, the wetness cooling under his skin.  He breathed shallowly.  If he just died, he’d never have to fuck with Magnus again.  Never have to make an active choice not to do it, it’d just stop.  That would be easier.  He closed his eyes, willed it to just come in and make things easier.  Not that he really wanted to die.  It’d just be easier. 

The edges of his dreams nudging in, voices, figures – the shapes of gestures and movement with no people inside them, just the dark of his eyelids.  A narrative with no dialogue, knowing things, then realising as his mind skimmed the surface that they couldn’t be true.  And then a fluttering sound, like gathered fabric, and his eyes snapped open, focusing on nothing, the yellow light of the room as another peel of thunder shook through the air.  That sound had been real.

“Picklesh?” said Murderface, standing in the doorway of the room with the flag that covered it held aside with his arm.  Pickles turned his head enough to see him, to catch the kid’s wide eyes locked on him, and a surge of defeat crashed down over him like a drowning.  All he could do was sigh and drop his head, letting his hips collapse sideways onto the mattress, praying death would fucking hurry up and take him already and that the guy hadn't seen his cunt.  Gooooood help him, oh man.  What a stupid fucking night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of the sex in this piece is healthy or okay, and Pickles is woefully misinformed as to the dangerous realities of unsafe sex. Condoms are great, use them! This relationship is not okay and absolutely abusive; if anyone treats you like this, contact help as soon as you can.
> 
> Borderline personality disorder is not an automatic precursor to abuse any more than it is to becoming a victim of it. What is a precursor is entitlement over others and their bodies, and while Magnus' flaring emotions could be explained by this, it's what he chooses to do with them that are the issue. The destigmatisation and demystification of mental illness will end up helping us all.
> 
> There's a part two over the page.


	2. Chapter 2

“Picklesh?”

“Murderface,” Pickles mumbled, barely forcing out the words around his high, and he reached with blind, groping fingers for his discarded jeans to cast over his crotch, hoping the kid wouldn’t see his cunt.  “Geddoutta here.  Can’ y’see ’m overdosin’ or... whatever...”

But Murderface’s boot steps crossed the wood floor, hesitantly, curiously.  He stopped by the edge of the mattress, and Pickles could almost feel him pointing at him.  “Um, Picklesch... isch that pissch?” he asked, and Pickles groaned.  He could feel the warm urine or... cum or whatever seeping up from the bare mattress against his legs with a humid body stickiness as his weight moved.

“Dunno, maybe... signs point to yes.  Go away please.”

“Oh _man._   You’re _fucked._ ” 

Pickles had closed his eyes, but they cracked open again the instant Murderface’s clammy, meaty hand closed around his ankle and yanked him aside.  The kid was surprisingly powerful; he pulled Pickles over the mattress like he was dragging a deer carcass, and Pickles heaved a nauseous yelp and scrambled weakly to cover himself.

Murderface didn’t care.  Pickles could blearily see him sniffing the air, hear his piggish snorts, still holding Pickles’ ankle aloft as the drummer gave a weak little kick.  “Fuckin’, shmellsch of fuckin’ weed sho bad in here I can’t even tell!” Murderface squealed in disgust, “What the fuck kinda... gay shit you even...!” and he tugged Pickles’ leg higher into the air.  Pickles gave a groan, hearing his own death knell in his ears as he clutched the wet jeans over his crotch.

“Oh, y’know.  Just... gettin’ high.  Put on a... a movie... jackin’ off,” he gurgled, “Bro stuff.”  Murderface was looking down at him with his little eyes, holding his leg up in a tight fist, and Pickles realised he was so high he couldn’t even feel afraid of him – a gay guy, a closeted gay guy, a closeted conservative gay guy from the fucking South who cried if it was even implied that he was into men.  Murderface had a dog-eared confederate flag sticker on his bass case.  But when Pickles tried to compute the idea that he was in deeper shit right here, naked with Murderface, than he had ever been with Magnus’ predatory advances, all he pulled up was: _Welp.  Guess I’ll die then._

Hell, at least Murderface would have the, y’know, dignity to make it fast, a knife across the throat.  Guy seemed like he’d hunted as a teen.  If Pickles had to die in his own piss then at least it’d be fast. 

“Everyone does this shit in Cali, dude,” added Pickles in a dizzy, wandering voice, looking up at Murderface’s curled lip through blurry eyes, and Murderface just snorted at him. 

“Thisch ain’t Cali.  You’re fucked.”  He dropped Pickles’ leg to grab for his clothes, gathering them up around Pickles as the other man lay helplessly on the wet mattress, his huge boots weighing down the broken springs as he stepped across Pickles’ body.  As Pickles breathed heavily and felt bubbles of fear float to the surface of his gut like burps, he could hear Murderface muttering to himself: “Can’t believe I shtill gotta do thish fuckin’... shit, all the way in Florida and I shtill gotta...”

“Murderface,” croaked Pickles, and Murderface stooped and slapped his bare chest sharply.

“Shut up.”

Pickles crooned messily in pain.  “My fuckin’ tit...!” he bubbled, and groped at himself, “I’m gonna puke!”

Suddenly Murderface’s boot was on his stomach, not pressing with any violence but holding him still – dominant.  And Pickles was looking up at him, a fucking mess, wishing he was alone or dead again.  “You don’t lischten to anyone, do you, Picklesh?  Think you’re sho fuckin’ great,” growled Murderface, Pickles’ clothes balled under one arm, the other crooked to his hip, “But now, you lischten to _me_.  You fuckin’ _owe me_ for thisch.  You’re _fucked_.  And I ain’t doin’ thisch twische.”

Doing _what_ twice?  Pickles got as far as isolating the spinning thought in his head, the vomit bubbling in his belly beneath Murderface’s boot, before the young man had stepped over him and snagged his leg again.  Murderface hauled with purpose, putting his back into it, and suddenly the roof was moving above Pickles and his back was sliding over the mattress. 

His head hit the floorboards of Magnus’ bedroom with a hollow thunk that nearly concussed him.  Murderface was dragging him like a fucking corpse across the room, his sweaty back squeaking on the floorboards as he was towed across them, the denim of his jeans tucked between his legs bit his skin as it rubbed between his weight and the floor.  He had _not_ seen this coming, not when Murderface dragged him roughly into the lounge and burned his bare skin with the dank and stained carpet, not the cold tiles of the bathroom floor before the light snapped on, making Pickles close his eyes tight with a whine.

Murderface released his leg to fall to the floor and grumbled as he dropped Pickles’ clothes into the sink, then tried to take the jeans from him, met with squeals and Pickles’ hands locked into the wet fabric.  “Give it!” he sneered, and Pickles just hauled on them with all his life.

“Hnnnngggg!  Nooooo!”

“Give _them_ to _me!_ ”  Murderface dragged back on the jeans, Pickles’ knuckles slipping from them one by one.  It was useless to resist him once he had planted his feet, and soon they had snapped from Pickles’ grip and sent Murderface staggering back against the basin, wet jeans in hand.  “Haaa!” he crowed with triumph, and leered down over Pickles, only to see what he’d uncovered, stop dead, and scrunch up his face in confusion.

“Shoulda known a big shot rock schtar like you wasch only packin’ a ‘225,” he concluded with a derisive, uncomfortable mutter, and stepped over Pickles to turn on the shower.  Pickles’ head swam with it, that a boot hadn’t come down on his head, and squinted into the bathroom light.

“What?”

Murderface looked over his shoulder at the other man, frowning at him.  “Goin’ on, all thesche pusschy rock schongsh, fuckin’ ‘schuck it’ and all that shit, and it’sch a fuckin’ chode!  Schoulda – I knew all along!” he said, and Pickles, collapsed on the cold floor with his dreads sprawled beneath his head, could not hold back the giggles of relief.

“Yeah, dude, yeah!” he chuckled, his head swimming giddy, and covered his dick with his hand, “Oh, I getcha!  Ohh, I don’t need to ride no side-saddle, naw!”

Murderface stood over him, scowling, and then tried to snatch up his limbs in his hands.  “Can’t believe you’re fuckin’ proud of that!” he squeaked, and managed to catch one of Pickles’ limp wrists and one of his ankles as he giggled and squirmed on the floor beneath him.  Holding each in his fists, Murderface lifted Pickles off the floor to a woop of surprise and manhandled him into the shower, dumping him on the tiles beneath the faucet.

Job done, Murderface leaned back against the basin and let out a sigh of relief, deaf to Pickles’ squeal of disgust at the cold water raining down on him.  After a moment to collect himself, Murderface noticed the squirming and Pickles curling up on his side, and reached over to turn on the hot tap for him as well.  Pickles stayed curled there, panting heavily and blinking away the water that coursed over his face, until Murderface followed it up by ditching a bar of soap from the basin at him, bouncing off his side and the wall of the shower to skid against his belly in the bottom of the shower.

“Get yourshelf clean already.  You schtink like a fuckin’ pig,” cursed the young man, and Pickles heard him run the basin tap as his own hand closed on the bar of soap.  It was pale yellow and stale, and a few of Magnus’ shaved beard hairs were stuck to it, unpleasant reminders of just how he’d gotten in this dire situation that Pickles would like to forget altogether.  He sighed and washed them off with stiff fingers before he tried to rub it against his chest, his hand clumsy and unresponsive.

But it was coming.  After a little gasping in the bottom of the shower like a stranded fish, the water touching his tongue and welling up as his body covered the plug hole, Pickles managed to sit himself up facing the wall, swaying under the drug still.  He shot a look over his shoulder to see if Murderface was watching, and was surprised to see the man had put his dry clothes aside and was washing his jeans in the basin, the blue denim darkened by the hot water and wrung in Murderface’s calloused fists. 

Something twanged in Pickles’ heart, some old string that hadn’t been plucked since the late 80s, and he turned back, humbled, to wash his messy crotch while Murderface wasn’t looking.  He felt deeply ashamed, cleaning off the fluids and slime from his fucking car crash of a crotch still aching from the fucking and probing while he could hear Murderface swearing under his breath and scrubbing away at his soiled jeans.  But Murderface hadn’t thought anything of it, or if he had – y’know, _unmanly_ – he’d just... let it slide, just to help Pickles out.  Call him negative but Magnus wouldn’t do that.  And Tony wouldn’t do that, not anymore.  That was because Pickles didn’t deserve it. 

And he didn’t deserve this, right now, this fuckin’ _kindness_.  It made him feel sick, to have to be helped like that.  But – wasn’t that exactly what he was begging for, in a way, getting so fucked up that he was totally helpless?  Not, like he’d thought, the abuse, not just disappearing from the world.  He decided he didn’t want to think about it and dropped the soap to slide away from him across the wet tiles.  There were red hairs in the water already, washed out of his scalp, and Pickles prodded them sadly with his numb fingertips.  He was gonna be bald by the time he was thirty.  He might as well be dead.

The sound of the jeans slapping against the glass of the shower panes made Pickles jump, and he struggled to fix his gaze on Murderface, standing in the door of the shower and leaning his palms on the rail above him, one boot up on the shallow side as he looked down at Pickles.  “Are you fuckin’ _done?_ ” he asked with a put-on politeness, and Pickles returned with a sad snort.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, and turned on the floor of the shower to lean his back against the wall, facing Murderface.  When the kid gave a pointed look towards the exit, Pickles just gave a quiet chuckle and shook his head.  “I can’t walk yet, okay, dude.  I’m still fucked.”

Murderface snorted at him.  “I washed your jeansch,” he said and pointed to them, as if this would change anything, but Pickles quickly realised he just wanted acknowledgement of the gesture and nodded to him.

“Yeah, I noticed.  Thanks, dude,” he mumbled.  Murderface looked proud of himself.

“Well... I guessch you can’t go anywhere until they dry, huh,” he said, and stepped back from the shower decisively.  “Wonder if Magnush hasch a hairblower or whatever...”

Pickles watched him as he went through the bathroom cabinets to no avail, just chucking Magnus’ shit on the floor, toilet cleaner and hair elastics and empty shampoo bottles, and listened to the shower water falling around him.  He looked at his arm lying limp beside him, the scars of trackmarks, and saw them open and bleeding out. 

“Fuck my life,” he mumbled, and covered his face with his hands, his legs curled up below him.  Murderface looked up at his words, raising his heavy brow in question, and Pickles peered out from behind his fingers back at him.

“I said, fuck my life.  What the hell am I doin’...” he repeated, pushing back his thin hair from his rising forehead with a hand, his shoulders dropping.  “I shoulda been someone different.  I should be anywhere but here – fuck my _entire_ life.”

There was silence, Murderface on his knees with his hands in the cabinet, and then he said quietly, “Fuck you.”

“What?” said Pickles, peering at him through the water.  Murderface stared into the cabinet, quiet with rage.

“Fuck you, Picklesch.  You were a fuckin’ _rock schtar_ , you don’t get to hate your fuckin’ life.”  He gave a strange sniff, as though fighting back his tears, and, thought Pickles, he probably was.  “If you hate your life, it’sh your own ascshole fault, you threw it away – you don’t even _know_ –”

But Pickles was already rushing to save him the tears.  “No, dude, it don’t work like that.  Everything sucks, everything’s fucked.  You know that,” he said, and Murderface sat back on his ass on the tiles, heartbroken.  He did know that, deep down.  It was just easier to hurt someone else.  Pickles rolled his head back against the shower wall, the warm water flowing down his numb chest soothingly.  “It’s okay, dude.  We’re in a band.  We’re in this together.”

“Magnusch?” Murderface said, softly, and he looked so young in the bright light of the small bathroom that Pickles could barely stand to break his heart like that.

So instead he said, “Yeah, dude.  Yeah,” and straightened his shoulders against the wall.  “I don’t think, that me and Magnus... are gonna be friends no more,” he added eventually, not looking at Murderface, “And I don’t think... we’re gonna hang out no more.  Him and me, and you, I guess, yeah.  Okay?  But we’re still a band.  So.”

“Scho,” echoed Murderface, and did not look at him either.

“So... don’t let me forget that, okay.  Don’t let me go home with him or whatever.”  Murderface looked at him at this, with a realisation – as if he’d heard the same words from the mouths of women, which Pickles had too and never heeded.  He felt so defeated.  It was much easier to do this shit when you hated someone.  He didn't hate Magnus, just knew better than to let this continue.  Anger was great motivation.  Self-hate... less so.

Pickles swallowed, finally looking at the younger man.  “I don’t wanna be an addict no more.  If that’s the way it’s gotta be, then that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

“Yeah,” conceded Murderface after a while, and then fell silent.  Pickles frowned at him.

“Is everything cool?” he asked, and Murderface nodded.  “It’s cool.  Okay.  Great.  It’s not about you, okay, dude.  You’re great.  Uh... I mean that.  Thanks.  You’re... savin’ my ass right here.”

Murderface just tilted his head, the ghost of a smile to his sad look at Pickles, and the drummer squirmed where he was sitting.  “Heck, I don’t care about wet jeans.  You know which bus takes ya downtown?  I didn’t bring my bike,” he said, and Murderface chuffed at him through a smirk.

“Buschesch schtop at midnight,” he pointed out, and folded his arms, thinking about it.  “You really want outta here?” he asked, and Pickles nodded earnestly.  “Mmm, y'know... me too.  Fuck it, I’ll walk you.  No one'sch gonna jump usch if we go together...” and Pickles had to admit, he had a point.

In too long and with too much trouble, Pickles was dressed again, his wet Levis stuck tight to his legs and his clothes hanging off him as Murderface walked him to the exit.  He looked up at the sky at the stairwell to Magnus’ estate building, the heavy clouds seeming to reflect the dawn light across them before it had even started to nudge the horizon, the stifling summer hot around them.  And then a heavy, warm raindrop hit him straight in the forehead, and another darkening the pavement beside him, and another, Murderface looking up at the sky too and holding out a hand.

Then the sky opened, the rain pouring down over them like a sheet, hammering around them as they just stood there in disbelief.  Pickles spared a laugh for his wet jeans blues as all his clothes plastered to him, and then, vindicated, stepped down the stairs, raising his hands as though in worship as they descended together.  “Aw, yeah, come on!  Rain down on me!” he called out, knowing he sounded crazy but not caring, and let it just wash it all away.

And that was the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are much appreciated.


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